Hunger
by Defiant-Dreams
Summary: He was so hungry. But he didn't deserve to eat. He didn't deserve to be loved. He didn't deserve to be happy. He didn't deserve to be alive. Anorexia, depression and America.


He was so hungry.

Alfred shuddered and curled into a tight ball, pressing on his stomach. His eyes fluttered open slowly, bleary eyes trying to make out the glowing numbers in front of him.

_1:10_

So near. 20 more minutes and he could eat. Not much, of course. But enough to keep the demon inside of him at bay.

The demon growled. Loud, noisy, attention-seeking. Just like him. He squeezes his eyes shut, his breath hitching.

It's not like he was starving himself, no, of course not. He was just… regulating his eating. He ate too much anyways, always shoving burger after burger in his mouth. It was about time he looked at his weight and appearance. And his health too, of course.

And… He was pretty fit, right? He had abs, he was strong. Hell, he was _sexy_, he knew he was. People hit on him all the time. He wasn't fat.

_But. What about that pudge, what about that belly, America? What about those flabs underneath your arms? There must be a reason to why everyone's calling you fat beneath your back._

Alfred flinched, before directing his gaze to the ceiling. He wasn't that oblivious. He wasn't an idiot. He knew, of course he knew what they said. Fuck, he was fat, wasn't he?

_God._ Everyone should just shut up. What did they know? Does it matter if they like him?

_Yes, yes it does. _

Alfred whimpers.

_And they don't, do they? They don't like you. You're nosy, arrogant, rude, demanding. _

_Stupid._

Yes, Alfred remembers every single thing they've told him. He remembers all those things that his brother said—_obstinate, opinionated, arbitrary, and you're always pigging out!—_He doesn't even know what half of those words mean. God. He _must _be stupid.

_You're always pigging out! _He does, doesn't he? Always eating. That's all he seems to do, is it? Aside from butting in other nation's businesses. He knows they can deal with their problems, he just wants to _help_ them.

What's wrong with wanting to help them? What's wrong with wanting them to help him when he's struggling? _Nothing_. Nothing, god damn it.

Alfred was doing a _good_ thing. He was helping people, helping nations. He's helping them because he can. He knows he makes mistakes sometimes, of course he does, but he tries, okay? He tries so hard. He just wants them to be happy.

He just wants himself to be happy. He deserves it, doesn't he? He deserves to be happy just as much as the others deserve to be happy.

_But you've hurt so many people._

Alfred whined, pressing his head to his knees. Yes. Yes, he had hurt a lot of people. He's killed, and stole. He's lied through his teeth and stabbed others in the back.

_Japan_. The nuclear explosions. He had wanted Japan to hurt. He had wanted so _bad._ He had wanted to win, wanted to see the explosion rock the nation. He had wanted Japan to double over with a wide look on his face as America's people won. As _he _won.

But not now. _God_, not now. Not again. _Never_ again. He didn't want to see his best friend hurt like that again. He was so scared over how angry he was, by just how much he wanted to hurt Kiku. He had never felt like that before, that need to kill and hurt.

He was a monster. _Fuck_, he was, wasn't he? He was always hurting those around him. He was always hurting those who loved him, pushing them away. He didn't want to, god, of course not. He wanted their love, wanted their approval.

_But you don't deserve it, Alfred._

His breath hitched, and he could feel the tears coming, could feel his heart clench.

_Just like you don't deserve food._

Fuck. Don't cry, Alfred. Do not cry. Don't be weak. Weakness is bad.

"_You are weak, comrade." _

Russia. Fucking commie. Fucking Cold War. Alfred's fists clenched on his shirt. He regretted that, he did. But he remembered. He remembered how delighted he was with every new nuclear bomb his scientists made. He remembered how he looked in the mirror and saw that glint in his eyes that reminded him too much of Russia and the cold.

"_Oh, god, the building's collapsing!" _

The Twin Towers. Fuck, he should have stopped that. He's heard the rumors just like everyone in the White House did, he should have _known, _he should have tried to stop it. God, why didn't he stop it? So many died. What kind of hero was he? What kind of hero let his people _die_, and not do anything to stop it? He tried to go to New York, god, he did, but he couldn't, and he had to watch them die on live television. He should have been _there_ with them; he should have _died_ with them.

But, it's okay now, _it is._ Canada had directed the flights; he'd saved so many people. His brother was there for him, he was always there for Alfred.

_But you weren't. _

Alfred flinched. God, he was never there for Mattie, was he? Everyone always forgot him, and he knew how upset Matthew was about that, he knew how Matthew cried and wished that they saw him and not Alfred. And fuck, if Alfred had been a better person then maybe people would stop yelling at Matthew. Maybe if he were a better person then Matthew would be happier. His brother deserved it; his brother was a good person—not like him. He loved his brother, he did, god, you have to believe him.

_But does Matthew love you too?_

Yes? Yes, of course Matthew loved him; what was Alfred thinking? What—why?

_Stupid. 1812. England and Canada._

Alfred's hand flew up to his chest, right above his heart. Fire. Burning. The White House.

Oh god.

Matthew doesn't love him. Nobody loves him. Everybody hates him. Is that it? _Is that it?_ Alfred trembles, choking sobs coming out. God damn it.

_And England?_

Alfred squeezes his eyes shut. Shut up, shut up, shut up. _  
_

_Your big brother? Arthur? Does he love you?_

Shut up!

_Always too late, Alfred. You should have helped him with the Blitzkrieg._

Oh god. Alfred sobs, shaking his head. World War 2. Fuck, World War 2. Please, please, please, _please. SHUT UP._

"_I'm glad to have you on our side, L'Amerique." _

"_Finally, bloody git."_

_I can go on, you know._

Shut up, please, god, just leave me alone. _Leave me alone!_

_Like how England left you alone?_

No, god. Just stop. I can't—I don't want to hear it, _please._

_Do you remember being alone? Like how alone you are now?_

Alfred shook, gasping a bit as sobs took over his body. So alone. God, he was so alone. He didn't want to be alone; he just wanted to be happy.

_You. Don't. Deserve. To. Be._

He didn't. He should die. Everyone would like that. They would, wouldn't they? No more stupid America to mess things up and butt into other people's business. No more oblivious Alfred who can't read the fucking atmosphere. No more stupid, rude, arrogant, self-centered Alfred.

_Yes._

But he can't die. He's a nation. It's their Curse. He can't _die._ He _should_ die. But he can't. He can't.

_But you can try. You don't have to eat, America. You can't die from starvation. _

No… He didn't. Food wasn't needed, it wasn't, was it? He could live without it, he would be fine. He would be—.

His alarm rang. He froze, fear welling up inside of him.

_11:30._

_Are you going to eat, Alfred?_

Alfred wavered, shuddering breaths leaving him. He—A knock on the door made him jolt in surprise. What? Someone was here. Shit, someone was here.

He stood up, legs shaky and walked towards the door. He let out a breath, and wiped his tears.

He opened the door, and came face to face with Matthew and Arthur.

He froze. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. The two of them stared at him, eyes wide. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. His eyes were red, weren't they? He looks like he's been crying, fuck. His hand drops from the doorknob to his side. Why did he open the door? Why didn't he pretend he wasn't there?

"Hey." He says weakly, smiling at the two of them. Practiced. Easy. Fake.

"Al?" Matthew murmurs quietly, eyes flitting up to his face and then to his shaking hands.

"Are you alright?" Arthur asks, his tone bordering on upset and fearful.

_Yes, of course. _"I—No."

Alfred's jaw clenches. Fuck, fuck. Why did he say that? Why didn't he lie, why? Oh god.

"Alfred, you have to—." Arthur says carefully, before cutting himself off and sharing a panicked look with Matthew.

"You have to eat, okay?" His brother says hurriedly, cheeks flushing. Alfred swallows.

"Eat?" He says dimly, fists clenching at his sides. He couldn't eat. He didn't deserve to eat. Why should he eat?

"Yes. When was the last time you had a meal?" Arthur says, his eyes narrowed with worry.

Alfred looks down, away from the intense look Arthur was giving him.

"I don't remember." He lies. _A week ago, why? What's wrong with that?_

"It's not like we need food." He jokes weakly, grinning at the two of them.

Matthew stares at him, a horrified look on his face that's being mirrored by Arthur. "Aren't you hungry? Al, why are you starving yourself?"

"It doesn't matter." Alfred says stiffly, before pushing past the two of them.

"Fine, I'll eat, okay? I'll be a good boy." He calls out. He misses the look shared by Arthur and Matthew.

He… He was stronger than this, damn it. He could eat. If not for himself, then to stop the worry that Mattie and Arthur were feeling. They shouldn't even be worrying about him. He didn't deserve it.

"Alfred."

He stills. And then turns. Arthur is looking at him with this pained look in his eyes and Matthew looks like he's about to cry.

He bites his lip, and then says carefully. "We're here for you, okay? We're _here_ for you." Matthew looks up at that and nods, practically begging for Alfred to understand.

Alfred stares at them. And then slowly, he smiles.

* * *

OH MY GOD. Anyway, I was writing this, and then when I got to the part where Alfred's stomach was growling, my stomach growled too. It was super funny, HAHAHA. Of course now, I am appeasing it with nutella.

Um. Serious time. This fic? Is pretty much how I feel all the time. I'm fit, hell, I'm a little arrogant about my body. But that doesn't mean I don't starve myself. That doesn't mean that even if I'm so hungry, I refuse to eat. I'm popular, or well, once popular, hell, I was class president this year. But why am I always the one calling them? Why am I always the one reaching out?

So, this just started out as an in-denial-anorexic!America, but it went on to a full self-study of sorts.

AND ALSO. FUCK SEMI-COLONS. I HATE YOU.

BTW. Alfred doesn't just pick himself back up and go back to normal. No, of course not. That's not how it goes. No. Alfred struggles, and he cries, and he starves himself again and again, and he goes through moments where he hates himself, hates his body, hates what he's done and hates Matthew and Arthur for doing this to him. He falls a lot. But he gets back up, because he's the United States of America, and he is strong. That voice of Self-Doubt will always be there, of course it will, but _so is Hope's._

**_EDIT: My fingers are twitching and I want to add a second chapter, but I can't find it within myself. I like leaving it where I've left it. It gives off a sense of hope, you know? I like hope much better than a second chapter, IDK. This story is complete, okay? _**


End file.
